


Anatomy

by stereonightss



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 18:04:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17647322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereonightss/pseuds/stereonightss
Summary: I wrote this fic when I was a freshman in high school, a long time ago when we put everything on Livejournal, lol. Hope you enjoyyy





	Anatomy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic when I was a freshman in high school, a long time ago when we put everything on Livejournal, lol. Hope you enjoyyy

His eyes are hazy as he stares out his office window. He taps his foot, the steel toe of his non-standard custom-detail combat boot makes a grating thud thud thud. Hawkeye looks indecisive, then decisive, then annoyed. She gets up to remind him to complete his papers. Before she can say anything he slides her a folder with the reports piled neatly inside. She thumbs through them. He’s specific but concise in his responses and she’s so pleased she moves to bring him the next wave of reports. He holds up an ungloved hand and says, “Tomorrow, lieutenant, tomorrow.”

Then he gets up from his desk and leaves. 

She stares after him, doesn’t stop him. She says, “The colonel…” and Breda finishes, “needs to get laid.” She would have articulated it differently.

Fury looks concerned, says, “But doesn’t he have a juvenile counseling session with Fullmetal today?”

All the office looks at its shoes. They know how the colonel gets. Hawkeye is optimistic and estimates that the worst they can do is end up watching porn together. She hopes they don’t—it’s bad policy. She makes a mental note to ask Alphonse to help her with Hayate tonight, then says with some authority (unfounded but exhilarating), “All dismissed!”

-

 

When he hears the click of the door he says, “You’re late,” and licks his index finger. He keeps his eyes down and turns pages with a restlessness that’s just subdued enough to slide under Fullmetal’s radar.

“Fuck yeah I’m late. I had to walk Al to lieutenant Hawkeye’s place again.”

“More animal rehabilitation?” he says, listening for the snap of buckles. When he doesn’t hear it, he says, “Take your shoes off, Edward.”

“Whatever, no. Don’t call me Edward, it’s creepy. They’re training Hayate.”

“Again?”

Edward puts his coat in the closet.

“I don’t know, man. You oughta tell her that he’s not legal.”

“I resent that on the lieutenant’s behalf.”

“You would.”

Edward puts on tea. He knows his way around by now; by now he doesn’t even sit ramrod straight. By now he relaxes and even chats with Roy, partly out of a misplaced guilt at having been convicted of a minor felony and partly because he wants to. Roy listens. Edward’s right hand makes off-key music on Roy’s delicate blue china. Edward has a hidden flair for the expensive and seems to pick the oldest antiques by instinct. He says from the kitchen:

“Anyway, Al and I have been working all day. I’m way too tired to do anything tonight.”

Roy is quiet for a while. He reads and listens for the difference between the falls of Edward’s real and prosthetic leg.

“Tea’s up.” Edward leans over his shoulder. The end of his braid brushes Roy’s ear; it feels like a fly. He sets down two coasters and a tray. The bronze teapot and blue china don’t match, but his attention to detail is otherwise perfect. Next to Roy’s cup, which is patterned with deer and Xing calligraphy is half a sugar cube and a small pitcher of milk. Edward unbuttons his collar and sits (relaxed, earnest) and says:

“What’re you reading?”

“Gray’s Anatomy.”

Edward sips noisily. He doesn’t wait for his tea to cool. Roy always does.

“Why?”

Roy rubs the bridge of his nose. He says, “You’re not the only one who had a long day today.”

“So you’re reading Gray’s Anatomy.”

Edward sounds disgusted. Roy cracks his fingers, supplies: “To relax.”

They drink for a while and Roy can feel Edward’s unrest on his skin like velvet on velvet. It’s a grainy feeling that annoys him so he says, “This is one of the texts you’ll use.”

“Do I really have to do this?”

“I had to pull strings to get you that sentence. Play teacher to the cadets and you can complete your forty hours in a week.”

Edward exhales through his teeth. It’s a delicate sound. He plays with his spoon and says, “I would’ve rather paid the fine.”

“And what would that have taught you?”

Edward sets his tea down (he’s drained it already) and drags his feet all the way to Roy’s bed. He flops down theatrically, throws his automail arm over his head and says:

“Why, I would miss all of this great character building.”

Roy winces. “Not character building, Fullmetal. Empire building.”

“You have issues, you know that?” Edward kicks his feet out. “Anyway, since we’re both beat, why don’t we skip the empire building for tonight?”

Roy closes his book and stands.

“No. I had a lesson planned.”

Edward looks apprehensive. “What?”

“Anatomy.”

“I know anatomy.”

Roy sits down next to him. Instinctively Ed puts distance between them. Roy says, “I’m teaching you practical anatomy,” and Edward looks dubious. Roy says:

“Turn over.”

Edward turns away from Roy and laces his fingers together. He lays his head on them, fidgets until he isn’t leaning on any screws or sharp edges. He wrinkles his nose and says, “As long as I don’t have to write anything down.”

“You won’t. Just pay attention.”

Roy rubs his fingers together and lays them on Edward’s neck. Edward’s spine hunches up. Roy presses his fingers into the depression between the two tight tendons that rotate Edward’s skull. He tugs the neckline of Edward’s shirt lower.

“Atlas,” he says, pushing down. He drags his knuckles lower until he feels a second ridge. He runs his thumb nail around it in a circle. “Axis.”

“That hurt, creep.” Edward wriggles, tries to turn around, says, “And you know. I’m eighteen and you’re almost thirty. Logistically—”

Roy pretends he didn’t hear, compresses the oxygen beneath his palm. The vacuum around his hand chills Edward’s skin.

He says, “Cervical vertebrae three through five.” and feels an involuntary clenching of his diaphragm. Edward’s spine torques, his obliques ripple wildly beneath Roy’s other hand. His back cracks, his shoulders sag like a doll’s. He doesn’t have all his ribs and the sound is unhealthy. His pupils constrict, his chest shrinks with a deep, shuddering exhalation. He groans and for a moment Roy is filled with the irrational fear that he somehow paralyzed the boy.

“Oh, oh.” Edward flips over, eyes wrinkled shut. His eyelashes are brown and wiry and lock shut like the teeth of a venus fly trap. “Oh that was brutal. How did you do that?”

Roy massages his palm, which is red. “Your skin is pale. There are certain rudimentary transmutation circles that can be approximated with,” he gestures, “a fingernail or knuckle. Providing the transmutation is executed before the image fades—”

“I didn’t know you could do that!” Edward sits cross-legged with his back to Roy. His shoulders are relaxed. He looks at Roy over his shoulder, his eyes are heavy and bright, light brown. He says, “Do you do muscle repair?”

Roy tries to think of something intelligent to say. He wants to say “Do I look almost thirty?” but sets the tips of his fingers on Edward’s distinct collar bone instead. He pushes in with the heel of his palm and Edward leans back, says, “Oh my god,” then, “the transmutation circle?”

Roy laughs, really laughs, and Edward is made aware of how close he is to Roy’s chest. “That was shiatsu, not alchemy.”

Edward lets out a little sigh and the room falls quiet for a moment. He says low down with an earnest appeal, “Do it again.”


End file.
